


The Accursed

by Meisiluosi



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Easterlings, First Age, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, pre-nirnaeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6467524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meisiluosi/pseuds/Meisiluosi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uldor didn't have much of a choice in the end...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Accursed

**Author's Note:**

> **Note on the names:**  
>  Yldar = Uldor  
> Ylkhaz = Ulfast  
> Ylkhar = Ulwarth  
> Bör = Bór

As was usual with him, Lithuinir came uninvited and unannounced.  
„So very good to see you again, good chieftain,“ he said as he entered.  
Yldar shuddered and in front of his mind’s eye, a nasty image flickered of Lithuinir’s voice oozing out of that sneering mouth, oozing like pus, like rotten egg insides, nasty, greyish yellow and sickening. He watched as the Iron Fortress emissary took off his riding gloves. The angry criss-cross pattern of old faded scars that covered every visible inch of the elf's white skin would have moved Yldar to pity – were it not for the cruel gleam in Lithuinir's grey eyes. There was nothing left behind those eyes to feel sorry for.  
„I see the sentiment is not mutual…“ Said the dark elf, sneer widening, as he sat down on the red cushion opposite Yldar. Of course he didn’t bother to wait for the chieftain’s invitation to take a seat. In this yurt _he_ was the one to give permissions and bark orders.  
Yldar threw him a defiant glance. “Three more died of the fever after your last visit, “ he said instead of acknowledging Lithuinir’s pleasantries. “I’m not surprised this is how you lot keep your word but I’m very hesitant now about keeping mine.”  
“Look at it this way…” Lithuinir said and the cruel glint in his eyes became colder and more pronounced than usual as he continued: “No one else has died of the fever  _since_ _._  Right…?”  
Yldar clenched his teeth, closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. “Well… Why are you here, anyway? All's been arranged. The battle is drawing near and we are busy with preparations. So should be you.”  
„Our Lord does preparations as he sees fit, good chieftain.“ The elf casually reached for Yldar’s teapot and cup and poured himself some roastcorn tea. „Do not dare to presume you're in any position to--offer commentary.“ He took a sip and made a wry face. Roastcorn tea was apparently not his thing.  
Yldar resigned to the idea of never drinking from his favourite cup again and waited in patient silence for Lithuinir to continue speaking.  
“A few nights ago we captured a certain young lady as she was trying to sneak past us into Bör’s camp.” With that, the elf reached into his leather bag and produced a small package wrapped in blood-soaked cloth. Despite the dark bloodstains it was obvious that once the cloth had been pale green, with running horses embroidered on it in brown and grey thread.   
The hem of Khashkiz’s skirt.   
Khashkiz, the silent runner.   
Yldar’s little cousin – and one of his best scouts.  
  
After Lithuinir had won both Ylkhaz and Ylkhar over, it had been a question of time until most of their people followed suit, willingly or not... Yldar had clung on to Bör as his last resort, hoped he might be able to think of a way out of this - and should it really come down to it, Bör would at least be able to alert Lord Maedhros.   
Khashkiz had volunteered to deliver the message.  
For a few precious days, Yldar had hope.  
With this last desperate hope gone, even his choices had been taken from him. With no help from the outside, there was nothing he could do his brothers wouldn't be able to counter.

The chieftain and the messenger were silent. The blood-clotted thing between them made all words unnecessary.  
Yldar tried to avert his eyes as Lithuinir reached forward and started to unwrap the little package. But he couldn’t and he watched on, in grief and horror, as a pair of small, round ears fell out onto the straw mat in front of him. They were still adorned with the amber earrings he’d given Khashkiz for her sixteenth birthday.  
“I would have brought more… But there isn’t any more left,” said Lithuinir, grinning ear to ear.  “Now…” He went on, his grin turning into a snarl. “I am not entirely sure what exactly you were trying to achieve there, good chieftain. But I wouldn’t try anything of the sort again if I were you. Do  _not_  make me--return.”  
And then he left.  
Four people died that night: three - the ugly, painful and feverish death of the crimson haze; one - the death of hope.

**Author's Note:**

> [The Path Shrouded in Mist and Shadow](http://archiveofourown.org/works/860205) might provide a bit of a broader (though not immediate) context for this ficlet.


End file.
